Liberation Is Not Deliverance
by NotBrokeJustBrokenHearted
Summary: Les Misérables AU: "This is not a story of vengeance. It is the story of how Stiles Stilinski relinquished his hatred, and learned to breathe freely again. It is how he became, what we consider, an honest man."
1. Chapter 1

Stiles Stilinski, a man who would come to be known by names, was born of humble means in 1769 to a peasant family in Faverolles, a commune located in northern France. His parents were goodly people, Claudine and Alain, they were prayerful and hard-working. For the short time they were together, the family lived on a small farm. Their rustic property was lined with large trees, and the sounds of the leaves rustling was a lullaby to Stiles's as a young boy. He was, perhaps, a bit attached to these trees. He would climb them everyday, and he would beg his father to tell him absolutley everything he knew about trees. Well, his father didn't know very much about trees, so Stiles was forced to satisfy his need for knowledge with his mother's tales of trees. She would tell stories of how the trees grew so tall or how they became stumps. Stiles hung on to her every word. And it could be said, that Stiles Stilinski had a happy childhood, but that was cut short. When he was eight, the influenza virus ravaged the small village. His parents did return to God. Stiles was eight and alone, a condition he would become acutely familiar with.

As an orphan, who was not fit to take of himself, he was sent to live with a dear friend of his mother, Lydie Martin and her husband, Aiden. The young couple had eight young children, all of whom worked with their father pruning trees, and Stiles worked with them. It hurt Stiles to snap the trees's branches, killing pieces of a vibrant and lively creature, it shattered the durable vision he had of the world around him. It was here, working in the trees, that he found that life could ergeiously lonely and unfair. The beacon of hope in his days was Lydie. The woman was an angel to him. She had fair skin and strawberry blonde hair. She was intelligent with a warm smile. Despite being very poor, Lydie had a large library, and it was in that very room that she taught Stiles how to read. First, in french, then, in latin. However, the bliss of his formative years ended, when Aiden died in a factory accident. Stiles, being the oldest of all the children, was now the sole adult provider of the house. The familt little money, but they were happy, or at least they tried to be. But it in was the winter of 1796, that the family became desperate.

For months, the economy was growing continually sour, and with that, there had been less and less food on their table, not nearly enough to feed ten people. Stiles worked as much as he possibly could, every hour possible, at every business posibble, but the family could not make ends meet. It was sure and dismal fact that they would not all survive the winter. It was never discussed, neither he nor Lydie could quite bear to discuss it, but they did mourn through glances, knowing that, in their current conidtion, the littlest among them were close to death. When the littlest children, Adélaide grew ill, Stiles was besides himself. He worked even harder, in hopes of providing the sick girl with food and medicine, but payments on a day's work decreaseddaiky.

It was Christmas Eve. Stiles was walking home from the factory, he had been lucky to find a day's work in. The snow was heavy, and he wrapped his tattered scarf more tightly around his neck as he trudged through the little town. Night had already fallen, and the shops surrounding him were encompassed with darkness. There was one shop that caught the man's eyes, Decaulion's Bakery. Deucalion's bakery was owned by Gideon Deucalion, a vain man with a penchant for street fights. Each day, Gideon would arrange and immactulate display of pastries and fine breads, before leaving the shop, to spend the day fighting with anyone gullible enough to challenge him. The bread taunted Stiles. Mounds and mounds of bread, and not a single person around. And in lapse of judgement, he smashed the window of the shop and grabbed the largest one, savoring its fresh smell. Unfortunately, Stiles had neglected that the smashing window would rouse the occupants of the apartment above the shop. It woke Deucalion in a jolt, and as he saw the thief running, he yelled for the police. Stiles Stilinski was not a fast man, and it was inveitable that he would be caught.

And that is how Stiles Stilinski came to be in the galleys of Toulon. He stole a loaf of bread and was charged five years in the galleys, plus fifteen additional years for each of his failed escapes. Stiles became prisoner 24601. He would spend nineteen bone-chilling year in Toulon, full of agnozing work. The construction made Stiles strong, stronger than any man in the Bagne of Toulon. But the daily routine of prison was something even Stiles didn't necessarily have the strength to endure. Not physically, but emotionally. The prison's monotonous schedule gave Stiles a deep sense of apathy for the deep suffering around him. The prisoners were to awake early in the moring, at least an hour before light, and assemble themselves in their ragged uniforms. After assembly, they would be taken row by row to their chain work. As the sun rose, the heat would become unbearable. Stiles was always drenched in sweat before mid-morning, though he cared little about how much he did sweat. "Christ," he'd mumble, "It's like standing in your own goddamn grave."

Then, around high noon, was when the wailing would begin. And old man, Monseiur Blanc, may have been the worst of them, especially since his work station, was directly besides Stiles. Monseuir Blanc would shout for hours, as if in Stiles ears, "I've done no wrong! Please, let me go. I pray to you Lord Jesus, hear this prayer. Let me go." It would take all of fifteen minutes for Stiles to get annoyed and yell to Blanc, "You know, I think it is pretty damn clear, that Jesus could care less." This would only stop Blanc for a moment of two, and each time Stiles reprimanded the man, it hardened his heart.

The next offender was usually Monseuir Mahealani. Mahealani had only recently been incarcerated, and he told lavish tales of his many lovers, especially a man named Ethan. He believed Ethan would wait for him. He liked to reassure his fellow convicts of this at every meal. He'd sit down at the table, with the scraps of food that passed a meal in Toulon, and he'd bellow loudly of the man who'd wait for him. Stiles was positive that this Ethan man had already forgotten all of Mahealani, Stiles longed to forget him, however his loud mouth made it quite impossible. It was at times like these that Stiles was happy to be considered the strongest man in the galleys, because it meant that was to leave dinner early, to bring down the flag mast. It was repreive for the idle chatter of sweethearts that he could barely endure. In times of solitude, he often mocked the bouncing, feminie flow of the jibbering men's voices. However, this night, was not a normal night. As he finished fixing the flag, he heard a command, something unheard of for the time of night.

"PRISONER 24601," he heard the guard shout from across the galley, dejected, he follow the man's voice. He met the man, a young guard, in front of the prison office.

"Yes sir," Stiles breathed to the young waif of a man at the door.

"Inspector Argent requests to see you inside," the young voice booms and Stiles slips through the door, into Inspector Argent's office. Inspector Alison Argent was a woman, about the age of Stiles himself. She had sweeping dark hair that was bunched on top of her head. She wore a tight police uniform and had two guns on her person, one secured on each hip. Her hard eyes were squinted, focused on Stiles.

"Prisoner 24601?" She questioned coldly, her voice carried much authority, enough authority that Stiles may have trembled in her presence at the beginning of his sentence. It did not faze him now. He nodded. She continued, "You're time is up and your parole has begun." She dug into her pocket, in search for his yellow ticket. When she retrieved the ticket, she sauntered over to him, and asked, hissing, "Do you know what that means, sir?"

Stiles face crumpled with happiness, a foreign feeling. "Yes, " he smiled, "It means I am free."

Appalled, Argent stood down, crossing her arms, "No," she barked, "It means you get your ticket of leave. This ticket identifies you as criminal, and you must show it. You are not free, you are a thief."

"I stole a loaf of bread," Stiles snarls.

"You are a criminal all the same, 24601." She sneered the number as she placed the paper in his hand.

He gripped the paper and protested, "My name is Stiles Stilinski."

"And I am Alison Argent. Do not forget my name," She uncrossed her arms, took out her gun, cocking it every so slightly, as a warning. She gestured towards the door. "You are to report in three days, 24601. And if you do not report, I will find you and drag you back here myself." Her threats were cold and convincing.

"My name is-" Her glare cut him off- and he decided not to fight. As he leaves the room, he sees Argent turn to the crucifix on the wall. She crosses and repeats her code; one Stilinski would learn well, "Honest Work, Just Reward. That's the way to please the Lord." She snaps the gun back in its holster, as he hurries towards freedom.

Stiles leaves Toulon with nothing but his papers and piece of beard. He feels more alive than he ever has. He treks the mountainous countryside, he feels the waning rays of sun against his skin and the gentle caress of the wind. As he feels the rushing hope of freedom, he makes a vow to himself, to never forget the cruelty he has endured, to never forget that life is not fair.

But this is not a story of vengeance, dear reader. It is the story of how Stiles Stilinski relinquished his hatred, and learned to breathe freely again. It is how he became, what we consider, an honest man


	2. On ParoleThe Bishop

When a man realizes that his freedom is deception, he has the capacity to become the most savage of beasts. Some will grapple with metaphorical shackles, while others will grapple with literal shackles, and it is when one feels the chaffing of these shackles that they search desperately, in dire need of supplication. There are two paths that man may take in an attempt to flee his own imprisonment, complete segregation from humanity or the empathy and consciousness of enlightenment. It cannot be said, however, that one path is better or more humane than the other, though the latter is preferred; this is because humanity is equal parts savagery and enlightenment. For it is the acknowledgement of savagery that brings about enlightenment, and thus enlightenment is the result of savagery, however, it is also the cause. For the enlightenment of men is perhaps most synonymous with a rigid moral code, a code which is applicable to few and does not wholly comprehend the plurality of the human condition. From this code, man seems to believe that he can derive authority, placing statutes and judgments on others, which limit growth and rapidly progress inequality. It can be said that savagery and enlightenment beget one another. Humanity is a pageant, a balancing act between savagery and enlightenment, and to survive man has undoubtedly indulged in both. In summation, do not judge another, as all of us, at one point or another, have had their soul ravaged by the inequality of fabricated liberation. And it is this very predicament that we find our protagonist.

Stiles Stilinski, during his time in Toulon, had developed a sort of optimism about the time of his freedom. He hoped that his family was well, if they had survived, which he was inclined to doubt. And he hoped that he would be able to find work easily, after all, the economic situation had to have improved in the past nineteen years he reasoned. This optimism was uncharacteristic of Stiles, but with a long trek ahead of him, he decided to ignore his problems, hoping that they would just go away if he did. So, he did just that, with an open mind, a small sack of food, and a walking stick, that he fashioned for himself, he began the trek north, towards his home, and hopefully, a job. He walked through the night, and at morning's first light, he approached a small village. And it was here, at the entrance of this village, that Stiles Stilinski would encounter the real terms of his liberation. When he presented his papers to the policeman, he was denied entrance and work. This would happen several more times that first day, and by the time night had came, Stiles had walked many miles and passed many villages, but he had been denied entrance to all. He snuck into a stable that night and slept among the horses. He rose early the next morning, in fear of being caught, and began his journey once more. By first light, he reached the town of Digne. At the entrance of Digne, Stiles was searched tediously, the guards poking and prodding him.

"Can we see your papers?" Sneered an elderly guard.

Stiles carefully took his yellow card out of his sack and handed it to the guard. The guard inspected it thoroughly, reading every word carefully. He looked down at Stiles sharply, and stepped away from him quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets as if to make sure all is belongings where still there.

"You are a thief," said the guard worriedly.

"I stole a loaf of bread," Stiles replied bitingly.

There was a pause, as if the guard did not know exactly what to say. They stood in an awkward silence. Then the guard handed him his papers and hurriedly addressed him, "You will be able to find work on the edge of town, at a farm. There is a man there named Jackson Whittemore, he will give you work. "

"Thank you, sir," Stiles breathed, as he quickly made his way to the old farmhouse. He arrived early, and joined the line of men by the door, there were about thirty there already. They waited quietly, each man praying he would be picked to work for the day. Soon, the door of the small farmhouse, and out walked a young man, younger than Stiles for sure. He perfectly coiffed bronze hair, and he wore a long black pea coat and a large pale blue scarf around his neck. The man walked with a walking stick, used for no purpose but sophistication, and he walked among the men assembled at his step. He eyed them all thoroughly, then he began to talk, "I need ten men to work my farm today. I shall choose my workers now."

He walked among them again, tapping his selected workers on the shoulders; he tapped Stiles' shoulder last. Jackson whispered into Stiles' ear, "You seem quite strong. Are you able to lift the wood I need to be a build a fence?"

"Yes, monsieur," Stiles replied.

"Then, you will have work for the day."

Jackson Whittemore then dismissed the other men and addressed the select few. He asked that they give him their belongings and papers for safekeeping, and he stored him in the barn, before giving the men their jobs. Stiles' job was to load wood for a fence Whittemore planned to build. He did his work silently and alone. It was around noon, that he encountered a problem. Monsieur Whittemore was walking toward him angrily, with Stiles' possessions and Stiles' yellow card gripped tightly in his hand. He stood in front of Stiles, and sternly ordered, "You must go, sir. I will pay you off for the day. Here are things. Be promptly on your way." He handed over his things and his wages, which Stiles clasped firmly in his hands. He counted the coins in his hands, savoring the feel, but as he counted, he found that he had not been paid his dues. Stiles glared angrily.

"You've given me half of we agreed, what the other men will get. You know, this shitty pile of tin couldn't buy a bead of my goddamn sweat."

Stiles attempted to corner Whittemore, keep him near, to discuss his wages, but the other workers rushed to their employer's aid.

"Oh come on, man," cried a laborer, "You've broken the law, you're a thief. Why the hell should you be able to work along honest men like me?"

"Or me!" Shouted another.

And thus shouts broke out all around and the men dragged Stiles to the curb of the property, pushing him away from the farm and onto the streets. "So, this is freedom," Stiles mused, "There is no real escape, haunted by crime and punishment. That is what the law does. Freedom is nothing but a name." He huffed to himself, and seeing as he had nowhere to go, he decided to use his wages to stay in an inn. He searched the town, until he found one; night was falling as he arrived. He knocked on the door, and presented his papers to the woman at the door. She read them over quickly, before shuffling away and saying, "I'm sorry, we have vacancies, sir." I can do nothing for you." He lightly clutched her arm, "Please," he murmured, "I'll sleep in a barn and I can pay in full."

It was just then that a burly man appeared, gently pushing the woman aside. He said, "You must leave, sir. We are law-abiding people here."

"Please, monsieur, please," Stiles whispered, "It's getting cold out here."

"Leave," the man bellows pushing Stiles away. Stiles throws a punch back and misses, which leaves him tumbling down the stairs. He stands up and brushes himself off gently, he has nowhere to go, and so he heads to the town square, in hopes of finding a bench to sleep on. When he arrives, he's frozen, and he lies down on a bench in front of church. It is only seconds later that feels a tap on his shoulder. He jumps up, and finds an old priest, wrapped cozily in a shawl. He smiles widely at Stiles. "Hello, monsieur," he says airily, "I'm a Bishop Jean. Please, come in, monsieur, it is very cold."

Stiles is dumbfounded, "But I am a criminal."

"My child, we are all sinners before God," says the Bishop, " Come inside, there is food, and wine, and a bed. Though our lives are quite humble, what we have, we have to share."

Stiles allows the man to lead him into the ornate church, the walk through the chapel, and into the bishop's small and barren living corner. There is a small wooden with four place settings; one has been put out for Stiles. The bishop, two nuns, and Stiles all gather around the table, and at the bishop's insistence, Stiles is given the largest helping. To Stiles, the dinner conversation is dry, the Bishop tells Stiles how he dreamed of being a policeman, but felt his calling with Christ. It was the type of bullshit Stiles felt nauseous hearing, but to appear polite and thankful, he attempted to listen. After dinner, the bishop showed him to his room.

"I'm sorry, sir," the bishop said, "That these large cabinets are in here. It is where we store our silverware.

"It is not a problem," Stiles assured sitting on the bed, and as he got ready to sleep, Stiles got a terrible idea. He would steal the silver; it could pay for more than the lousy wages he earned ever could. It was the middle of the night when he rose; he quietly opened the cabinets in front of the bed. He quickly grabbed every plate and table setting in sight, shoving them roughly into his sack. And he rushed out of the church, as quick as possible. He ran through the streets, the sack of silver clinking behind him. He didn't look back. But the ruckus that the silver made roused a tired guard. He chased after Stilinski, and as Stiles was not the fastest of men, he caught him quite quickly. He pinned Stiles against a wall.

"Monsieur," he shouted, " Your papers please."

Stiles handed them over weakly.

"You are a thief," he guard ordered harshly, "Let me search your bag."

Stiles handed it over. The guard's shouting had begun to rouse the street. The light was beginning to break. The guard opened the bag and gasped.

"This is Bishop Jean's silver, you thief," he screeched. When the onlookers heard, shouts begin to overwhelm the street. The guard grabbed Stiles, but Stiles pleaded, "Please, monsieur, it was a gift, from the Bishop himself."

"Is it now?" The guards asked, "Well, then, let us ask the Bishop himself."

The guard and the crowd roughly captured Stiles, dragging him towards the church. Stiles stomach began to churn, a sense of dread overwhelming him, he would be in prison once again. The guard rapped on the Bishop's door. The old man, still wrapped in his bedclothes opened the door, blinking at the sun.

"Hello, my son," he asked, "How may I help you? Do you need a blessing?"

The guard dragged Stiles to the front of the mob and presented the sack, "No kind sir," he replied, "You see, I found this man, who claims to be your guest. He says you made a present of this silver, we will punish-"

"He is right, sir," The Bishop affirms, "This man speaks true." Then he turned to Stiles, "But my friend, you left so early, I am sure that something slipped your mind." He disappeared behind the door for a moment, and returned with two candlesticks and a bottle of wine. He addresses Stiles, "You left the best behind." He places the objects gently into the bag.

The bishop then addresses the crowd, "There is no need for punishment here. I commend you for your duty. God's blessing, go with you." Bishop Jean crosses himself, and the crowd returns the gesture before dispersing, grumbling. The bishop then turns to Stiles, grabbing his shoulders lightly. He is smiling. Stiles feels shame building inside, crashing on to him, he doesn't feel like he can stand much longer. The Bishop speaks, lovingly, "Now, remember this day, my brother and see God's plan. You must use this silver to become an honest man. With the witness of the Christ, his angels, and his saints, this day I save your soul for God." He crosses Stiles and embraces him, before returning inside and shutting the door.

Stiles stands on the steps, dumbfounded. He picks up the sack from the ground, and beings to walk, but he feels weak. He guilt is pounding inside, and he only makes it steps out of the small town before he collapses on the side of the road. He sits in the dirt with his head in his hands. Stiles mouths, "What have I done? Sweet Jesus what I have done? Become a thief again? I am not a thief, what I done?" Stiles feels consumed his hatred and his pathetic crime. He thinks overwhelmed with the turn his freedom has taken. He cannot understand. Why did the bishop not turn him in? Why had he treated him like a friend, like family even? He knows, that if the bishop had spoken otherwise, he would be in Toulon, suffering, promptly. But here he was a free man, who had never known grace, experiencing it for the first time. And thus, Stiles' repentance begins, he cries to a God he is weary of ravaged by the shameful feelings that accompany sin. He prays to know another path, to find a way to avoid such selfish indulgence again. It is clear to him then, he must destroy the hateful man he became, and open his heart to the bishop's love. He must give his soul to God; he must no longer be a criminal. And with that, Stiles tears up his card, his parole ticket. And he promises God that he will be a faithful, honest, and free man.


End file.
